


Heart of a Child

by cac0daemonia, Crystalshard



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Minor Character Death, Operation Knightfall, Order 66 (Star Wars), The Mandalorian (TV) Spoilers, this is going to hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28373751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cac0daemonia/pseuds/cac0daemonia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystalshard/pseuds/Crystalshard
Summary: Grogu's life did not begin when Din rescued him from bandits. His story started long ago, and when Palpatine initiated Order 66, one clone trooper was all that stood between him and Operation Knightfall.This is that story.
Comments: 52
Kudos: 188





	Heart of a Child

**Author's Note:**

> This was a joint project with the wonderful [cac0daemonia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cac0daemonia/works). She provided the gorgeous artwork, and I volunteered to write the story. Please go take a look at her other art and leave comments if you like it!
> 
> This fic was inspired by maulusque on Tumblr, who asked, "What if it was a clone trooper instead of a Jedi who saved Grogu?"

"Down that alley! Cut him off!" 

Keys swerved his speeder bike into a sharp right-hand turn, the back end of his bike drifting through a perfect ninety degrees before he tapped the accelerator. Their target wouldn't get away this time; the Coruscant Guard had spent too much time and effort tracking down this death stick dealer to let him escape justice. 

The comm crackled in his ear. _"Keys, we're chasing him towards the exit of your alley. If you can get in front of him, we can box him in on all sides."_

"Copy that, Sarge," Keys acknowledged. Pressing his foot further down on the bike pedal, he coaxed more speed out of his bike. Just a little faster . . .

He shot out into a relatively quiet lane of Coruscant traffic, twitched aside neatly to miss a civilian speeder, and looked over his shoulder to check where their suspect was. For a brief second, he caught sight of the dealer's face at far too close a range, their eyes wide and their face shading green in fear. 

Then there was a loud bang, and Keys' hands clenched uselessly on the handlebars of his bike as Coruscant spun by in a blur while his reflexes tried to straighten the bike out without input from his conscious mind. Adrenaline, automatic and useless, stung sharply in his veins as his bike fell from the sky and skidded onto a walkway. 

There was a crunch as his bike stopped while momentum threw him forward, and Keys hit the wall bucket-first. He barely had time to register the pain before the world went out. 

* * * 

The first thing that Keys registered upon waking was an impressive headache. 

"Congratulations on surviving that crash," said a warm, quiet voice that Keys, too distracted by pain and vague nausea, couldn't quite distinguish as anything other than _clone_. 

He risked opening his eyes a slit, found that the lights had been thoughtfully dimmed, and peeled them open far enough to see the medic hovering by his bed. Short curly hair, and a tattoo of something that looked like a two-pronged grappling hook on the back of his bare left hand. "Anchor?" Keys asked, voice raspy from disuse. 

"That's right, kid." 

"Not a kid," Keys muttered. He wasn't! He'd been in the Coruscant Guard six months, he'd earned the right to wear the CG colors on his armor. 

"And still sassy, good. Feel up to answering a few questions, or do you want to sleep a bit longer?" 

Keys considered the offer. "Pain meds," he decided. "Then questions."

Anchor eyes him. "Headache? Dizzy?" 

"Mmmm," Keys confirmed.

"That'll be the concussion." Anchor reached for a hypodermic injector and stabbed it into his neck. "That's a combination painkiller and anti-emetic, it'll kick in soon. All right. What year is it?" 

Keys dutifully rattled off the date. 

"It's a day later, you were out of it overnight, but that's fine. Who's the current Supreme Chancellor?" 

Keys wrinkled his nose, then regretted it as the motion sent an additional throb of pain through his aching head. "Sheev Palpatine." 

"And how much do you remember about yesterday?" 

"You want me to start with breakfast, or just the chase?"

"And that's another tick for sassy," Anchor said with an amused huff. "The chase will do." 

Keys covered the main points of the pursuit, ending in, "And then I think I crashed into a wall." 

"You did," said another voice, and Keys could tell that it was only the speaker's iron self-control that prevented exhaustion from coloring every syllable. "You were lucky you didn't break your neck. Your sergeant's had to requisition you a new bucket." 

"Commander," Anchor said, his empty hand twitching as if he longed to be holding a hypo of sleep drugs. 

"Anchor," Commander Fox acknowledged. His own bucket was tucked precisely under his arm, the empty eyes facing forward as though the helmet itself disapproved of Keys being careless enough to crash his bike.

"Did my squad catch the dealer, sir?" Keys asked anxiously. 

Fox gave Keys a half-smile that just barely touched his dark-rimmed eyes. "They did. Next time, please try not to stop your target with your bike. I'll grant it was effective, but we're on a budget." 

Keys' shoulders relaxed. "Thank you, sir." 

"Don't thank me yet," Fox warned him. "You'll be on foot patrol until your new bike is delivered. I've already spoken to your sergeant, he's aware. You will report to Sergeant Grin tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow, sir?" 

"I'm giving you today off to recover. Whether that's here or elsewhere depends if you can persuade Anchor to release you." 

Keys groaned, and Commander Fox chuckled briefly. "That will be all, Trooper." 

"Yes, sir!" Keys barked automatically. 

Commander Fox's retreating boots were still clicking sharp against the medbay floor when Anchor cleared his throat. "How's the headache?" 

Keys blinked, then transferred his attention to his insides. "Huh. Better, sir. And the nausea's gone." 

"Think you can make your way back to your own bunk?" 

"I could run a patrol on this level of headache," Keys said frankly. Anchor's lips thinned, but he said nothing. They both knew that patrolling with a headache was one of the least dangerous things the Coruscant Guard had to do. 

"All right. No alcohol for a week, and try to rest as much as you can today. I'll give you some pain pills, if you need more than I've given you then come back here and I'll check your head again. Stores will have your new helmet." 

Keys exhaled relief, and sat up carefully. The room stayed put instead of swaying like a Kamino wave, and he hopped off the bed. "Thanks, Anchor." 

* * *

The Jedi temple's sweeping, airy architecture never failed to awe Keys. It was so open! So bright! You could see all the way to the horizon if you stood on the broad arcade that wrapped around most of the temple, and it made Keys long to jump on a speeder bike and soar into the empty air. 

Today, however, he didn't have time to stop and stare. He had a familiar destination in mind - one that might not be exactly restful, but was certainly lower on stress than almost anywhere in the Guard barracks. 

Hurrying Jedi gave him distracted nods as they passed him, and Keys let himself imagine where they were going. That Rodian, maybe on their way to the communications center? The Zeltron with the preoccupied smile, was she worrying about her troops or just rushing to the canteen before all the good snacks were gone? And that elderly Cosian with the Twi'lek kid running around his feet, maybe they were on their way to the Archives? 

Thus entertained, his footsteps led him to a door painted a soft, cheerful yellow. It must be well soundproofed, he decided, for happy shrieks and high-pitched giggles broke the peaceful atmosphere of the Temple as soon as the door cracked open. 

"Keys!" shouted a tiny Palliduvan, charging forward gleefully. 

Keys stepped forward and swept the boy up into his arms, the warm wriggling weight on his hip easing the weight on his mind as the door closed softly behind him. "Dikto!" Keys said happily. "How have you been, little mischief?" 

Dikto giggled. " _Very_ good, " he said, a flagrant lie if Keys had ever heard one.

"Oh, is that so?" Keys tilted his head, unable to remove his helmet with an armful of child. "Maybe I should talk with your crèche-master then, see if . . ." 

"No! No!" Dikto squealed, slapping his palm against Keys' helmet. Keys was abruptly glad that he still wore it; even toddler-aged Palliduvans had sharp fingers. 

"No?" Keys looked across at the elderly Gigoran who was serenely overseeing the chaos, and her dark eyes crinkled in a smile as she nodded to him. "In that case, you'd better show me what game you're playing." 

Dikto thought about that. "Down!" he ordered imperiously, and Keys crouched down to settle him on the floor. Prudently, Keys removed his bucket and settled it on top of a tall cupboard that was well out of reach - and sight - of little hands and eyes.

Given the standard attention span of a toddler, Dikto soon forgot him and ran off to play complicated and somewhat baffling games with his fellow younglings. That was more than fine by Keys, as it let him spend more time with the rest of the baby Jedi. Including, eventually, his secret favorite. 

"Hey, Grogu," he murmured, reaching into the child's cradle as the baby woke blinking from a nap. "Don't tell anyone, but you're far too adorable." 

Grogu's mouth opened on a happy chuckle, his ears perking up as he saw Keys' face. There was a feeling of joy and affection whenever Grogu saw him, and Keys only knew it wasn't his own (very similar) emotions because one day Grogu had spotted him first and the sensation had crept over him out of nowhere. The kid had to be pretty strong with the Jedi stuff, Keys reckoned, because he didn't get that feeling from any of the other little ones.

Grogu mewed at him, a tiny tooka-kit sound, and Keys smiled down at him helplessly. "Oh, you're hungry? I'm sure Master Ynorra has a bottle of that fish goop you like." 

Grogu squealed, which as far as Keys could tell was enthusiastic agreement. He was definitely enthusiastic when it came to sucking down the liquefied seafood-and-reptile mess that Master Ynorra provided, at any rate, and he let out a surprisingly loud burp when he was finished with the drink. 

"Better?" Keys checked. The babble he received in return sounded positive, and Keys settled down on the floor with his back to the wall as Master Ynorra pulled out a storybook. Grogu seemed content to sit on his armored thigh and watch from his perch as the rest of the toddlers flopped tiredly around the enormous, reassuring presence of their crèche-master. 

The story drifted in one ear and out the other as Keys thought back to his own childhood. Kamino had been severe and cold, all white and black instead of the welcoming bright colors of this room. Their toys had been blasters and first aid kits, their games strictly controlled exercises, their storytime flash-training and endless tests. But there had been moments that even the Kaminoans and the trainers couldn't stamp out, moments when they passed whispered stories among themselves at mealtimes and showed each other tricks and techniques that might help those who were falling behind. Moments when they'd fallen asleep cuddled up in each others' pods and had warmth and comfort through the night. If they were lucky, they weren't caught. 

Keys rubbed at his forehead. Now that he wasn't actively ignoring it, his headache was creeping up on him again. Maybe he should have kept to the spirit of Anchor's instructions rather than just the letter, and gone to nap on his bunk instead. 

Closing his eyes for a moment, he opened them to Grogu's worried face. Grogu patted his cheek gently, making an inquisitive noise. 

"I'm okay, kid," Keys tried. 

Grogu's forehead wrinkled, and he reached up higher with both hands, the sound changing to distress. 

"Right, Can't lie to Jedi," Keys mumbled to himself, obediently picking Grogu up and tucking the little one into his shoulder. That usually soothed the little green menace, but apparently not today. Grogu leaned one three-fingered hand on Keys' spaulder - how did such a small child manage to be so heavy? - and reached up for the right-hand side of Keys' head. "It's okay, kid, you don't need to -"

There was a sense of pressure against the inside of his head, and then the pain abruptly doubled, tripled. Keys grimaced, his eyes scrunching closed as his mouth dropped open, and he determinedly gritted his teeth together against the sharp agony. 

"Nng . . . Gro . . . gu, stop . . ."

The pressure increased again, and something in his head popped. The majority of the pain washed away and Keys opened his eyes again, almost dizzy with relief. 

A shadow fell over them, and Keys looked up to see a friendly mountain of fur looming in front of him. "Grogu!" Master Ynorra scolded, the vocoder she wore around her neck translating her native language to Basic. "What were you doing to the poor boy?" 

Keys considered protesting her use of 'boy', but kept his mouth shut to avoid drawing her attention. 

Grogu looked up fearlessly at Master Ynorra, and there was silence as she listened to whatever he was telling her via Jedi mind-reading. 

"I am aware that he had a headache. In fact, he was broadcasting it so loudly while you attempted to help him that the rest of your crèche-mates felt it too. You owe them an apology - but first, you owe one to Keys. You did not ask his permission to attempt a healing, nor do you have the skill or experience to do so safely - yes, I know one of the Healers taught you the basics. You still need to be supervised. You could have caused Keys severe injury with your attempt, and you are lucky that he seems to have taken no harm from it." 

Grogu chirped sadly.

"It's not me you need to apologize to. Go on." She nudged Grogu gently with a paw nearly as large as the baby himself. 

Grogu turned around, lifted a hand to Keys' jaw, and looked up at him with those enormous dark eyes, his ears drooping. Keys received the impression of regret and guilt, and he sighed. "All right. You're forgiven, but remember to ask for permission next time, okay?" 

Grogu perked up, resting his tiny cheek against Keys' red-painted breastplate. 

"It's time to say goodbye for now, Grogu," Master Ynorra rumbled kindly. "Keys needs to go see the Healers so that they can confirm he's okay, and you need to say sorry to your crèche-mates and join them for a nap. 

Grogu whined, but didn't fight as Master Ynorra lifted him off Keys' thigh. Keys pushed himself to his feet and petted Grogu's ears in farewell. "Fate willing, I'll see you again," Keys promised. 

"The Halls of Healing are left down the corridor, up two flights of stairs, and through the second archway on the right," Master Ynorra informed him quietly. 

"Thank you, Master Ynorra," Keys said politely. He retrieved his helmet, then waved to the sleepy pile of younglings. "Bye, kids! I'll be back if I can!" 

"Goodbye, Keys," the kids chorused. 

The Jedi Healers, once Keys found them, were intimidating but kind. They pronounced him mildly concussed but otherwise healthy, and Keys left with a bacta patch for the external bruise on his scalp. 

As he descended the long sweep of steps outside the Temple, Keys started planning when he could get away for his next visit.

* * *

Grogu squinted up at the artificial light source that illuminated the Room of a Thousand Fountains, and muttered to himself in discontent. This was boring. He'd been here many times before, and he didn't want to explore the way his crèche-mates were doing. He wanted Keys, but Keys had been gone for days and days and days. Grogu never knew when his friend would turn up. 

Turning, Grogu scrutinized the cluster of plant-pots nearby. If he climbed onto that one there, he could make it onto that other one, and from there make his way to the big pot that had the bush with the big soft leaves. It was a nice bush, and being under it was like being in a play-tent sized to fit him. 

The thought of the space under the plant decided him. Small claw-tipped fingers reached out for the nearest pot, and he held it steady with the Force as he clambered to the top of his first step. It was tiring, but worth it, when he tucked himself into the nice-smelling cavity under the thickly layered leaves. It was a perfect place for a nap. 

The heavy tread of Master Ynorra approached his hideaway, and she paused beside the pot. _I'll fetch you when it's time to return,_ she sent. _Let me know if you move._

Grogu sent sleepy agreement, and Master Ynorra left to corral the more rambunctious of his playmates. 

* * *

"Stop! Coruscant Guard!" Keys yelled towards the running pickpocket, his feet taking him further and further from his temporary squad. With the equipment and personnel losses on the front lines, Keys wasn't surprised that his replacement speeder hadn't arrived yet. Running was no substitute for flying, though, and maybe if he still had a bike then he'd have been assigned to dealing with that Separatist ship that the Jedi had crashed. Instead, he was of chasing petty criminals, which was nowhere near as much fun.

_We weren't engineered for fun. Just to obey orders. And if the orders say to run a night patrol of this area after already putting in a full shift, then we patrol._

Saving his breath for the pursuit, Keys listened with half an ear to his radio. _"Now I know why they call him Keys,"_ one of his current squadmates joked. _"He just won't give up until he can lock 'em up."_

 _"Can the chatter, Trill,"_ Sergeant Grin said in poorly hidden amusement. _"You okay there, Keys?"_

"Yeah . . ." Keys saw his opportunity, ricocheted off the wall onto the closed top of a dumpster, and dropped onto his prey from above. "Got him!" 

Keys didn't register the silence on the other end of his radio, occupied as he was with wrestling the teenage Human to the ground. It was a good thing that their armor included a codpiece, because this one kicked. And bit. Keys managed to subdue them long enough to get their hands cuffed behind their back, jerking out of the way as nimble fingers attempted to relieve him of his blaster. 

Keys switched from internal comms to broadcast. "Down, kid. You are under arrest on suspicion of theft. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention something which you may later rely on in court." 

Apparently, what they wanted to say consisted mostly of swearing and threats. 

Exasperated, Keys flipped back to his squad's frequency. "Sarge? I caught the pickpocket. Level 16, corner of H456 and V89, near the _Trandoshan Treats_ bakery." 

"CT-3126-8527," Sergeant Grin said formally. "Rendezvous at the following coordinates." 

The location he rattled off was very familiar, and Keys frowned. "The Jedi Temple, sergeant? Are the Jedi under attack?" 

"Report to Commander CC-4558 on arrival," Grin ordered. 

"What about my pickpocket, sarge?" 

Grin's voice took on an uncharacteristic tinge of irritation. "Petty crimes are irrelevant. Order 66 has been issued. Obey your orders, CT-8527!" 

Order 66? What on the moons of Corellia was Order 66? "Yes, Sergeant." 

The frequency closed, and Keys stared mutely at his cursing prisoner. As if it were another brother's hands, Keys watched himself click open the restraints. 

"It's your lucky day. Clear out," he said monotonously, not bothering to watch as the pickpocket took to their heels and fled. It was going to be a long walk to the rendezvous point. 

* * *

The bad sounds woke him. Bad, thin sounds that Grogu had never heard before. They sounded a little like a lightsaber igniting, but without the steady hum of a proper blade underneath. 

Scared, he reached out for Master Ynorra. She was scared too, and he had never felt her be afraid before. Whimpering, Grogu curled up, his ears twitching as the not-saber sounds came closer. 

_Hide._ Master Ynorra impressed the thought firmly on him, and through their connection he knew that she stood between the scary noises and his crèche-mates. _Hide your light the way Master Tholme taught you. Hide your body/self so that the empty troopers cannot find you. Be silent and still until someone you trust/Jedi finds you._

Grogu closed his mouth against the wails that he wanted to voice, and he sent back agreement. Master Ynorra responded with a burst of love and warmth and approval, and then - had she closed their connection? Grogu wanted her back! He needed her to be there! His thoughts butted up against solid shields, and he wanted to cry again knowing that she'd shut him out. 

The bad thin sounds were very close now, and he could hear marching boots that reminded him of Keys. But these men were nothing like Keys, they were cold and mechanical in their minds. They were the empty troopers that Master Ynorra had warned him about. 

A deep growl emerged from Master Ynorra's chest as he heard her lightsaber burst into life, and the nearest bad sounds began to overlap in his twitching ears. Trembling in every limb, Grogu kept quiet. 

* * *

The Jedi Temple was on fire. 

Keys' eyes widened as he saw flames lick up around the central tower, clouds of choking black smoke boiling into the night sky. No wonder Sergeant Grin had been so terse, if this was the situation. His squad couldn't have stayed to wait for him in an emergency like this. Had the Guard managed to evacuate everyone yet? 

Breaking into a jog, Keys glanced around for the nearest trooper. Most of the ones he could see seemed to be on patrol around the temple, probably keeping civilians away. The others must be inside, searching for survivors and fighting the blaze. It looked like the 501st had pitched in to help as well, given the sheer amount of blue paint trotting around. Good. Maybe this time they could be useful instead of committing drunken shenanigans that Keys would have to arrest them for. 

A flash of red caught Keys' attention, and he double-timed it over to his fellow Guard. "CT-8527 reporting," he said quickly, aware that during a big op like this their comms records would be logged for the investigation that would inevitably follow. "I've been told to report to Com - to CC-4558." 

"CC-4558 is leading the search for survivors inside the temple," the other Guard said bluntly. "I'll let him know you've arrived. You will wait with me until we receive further orders."

As much as he wanted to dive right into the temple and help the search, Keys couldn't help a touch of relief at the knowledge that everything was under control. "Understood." 

The Guard seemed to be the designated comm tech, as he passed messages not only to Keys' commander but between other teams as well. He appeared calm, but there was something . . . off about him. Something peculiar in his phrasing. 

Jittering from foot to foot, Keys pulled off his bucket as soon as there was a break in the flow of communications. "What's going on?" 

The Guard tilted his head at Keys. "CT-8527. Replace your helmet." 

Bewildered, Keys did so, and the Guard nodded in approval. 

"There's been a rebellion," the Guard offered. "The Chancellor has issued Order 66. Once the rebellious Jedi have been eradicated, we will have restored security to the Republic." 

Only years of training kept Keys upright and on his feet as the meaning of those words hit him. 

_The rebellious Jedi._

_Eradicated._

His brothers were killing the Jedi. 

"All of them?" Keys asked, beyond grateful for the vocoder that flattened out the quiver in his voice. 

"Every single one," the Guard agreed. "General Skywalker was very clear about that." 

Numbly, Keys nodded, which appeared to be enough to satisfy the Guard. Thoughts whirling and body frozen, Keys locked his gaze onto the Temple and let his perspective twist. The patrols were to keep any Jedi from escaping, so he'd have to evade them if he wanted to rescue any survivors. Joining the Commander was no longer an option - these were orders he couldn't obey, his very soul rebelling against the idea. Why were the other clones showing such casual acceptance of a blatantly immoral order? What had happened to them - and could it happen to him? Had the knock on his head jarred his brain cells loose? Was it a legal order? Was he the crazy one? 

No. The 'rebellion' propaganda was patent nonsense. The Jedi didn't have the time or need to rebel, and any order that implied the murder of every Jedi down to the younglings had to be illegal. Maybe there was something in the helmet speakers that was blurring their minds, and his new one had somehow failed to broadcast the frequency? It was as good a theory as any. 

It didn't matter. Theories were pointless, he didn't have enough information. What he needed to do was get inside the temple.

Beside him, the Guard glanced in his direction. "CC-4558 is waiting for you at the lower west exit of the Temple. I'll send you the coordinates and the frequency." 

Now or never. "Acknowledged," Keys said briskly, as if this were any other operation. The coordinates pinged up on his HUD, and he marched off in the right direction, an obedient trooper. 

Once out of sight, Keys gritted his teeth. He could really use Commander Fox's input on his hastily-assembled plan, or Sergeant Grin's, or any of his batchmates. But they weren't here, and if they were then they were probably hunting down Jedi.

_Don't think about it. Don't think about it._

Click-click-click went the clasps on his right vambrace as he unbuckled them and slid it off his arm, clack-hiss went his bucket as he removed it as well. His blaster whirred as he powered it up, and Keys swallowed. He didn't need to fake the fear in his voice for the next part. 

Opening the frequency on his vambrace-mounted radio to his Commander, Keys begged the Force to let this work. "CC-4558, this is CT-8527." He fired a couple of shots, just enough to sound like one that had bounced off a lightsaber. "I'm under attack, there's a Jedi trying to -"

 _"CT-8527, report your position,"_ the commander barked. CC-4558, that was Commander Vale, wasn't it? Barely more than a cadet, sent out from Kamino a bare few months ago to replace Commander Thorn. 

"Intersection between - argh!" Keys timed a shot at the vambrace to match his scream, frying the circuits. There. With some luck, that might draw a few of them away if Vale bought his faked death.

Tossing his blaster-burned vambrace over the side of the walkway for the scavengers in the lower levels to find, Keys shut off the power to his helmet. It'd do away with any chance of him hearing anything over the radio, but it was a necessary sacrifice to kill his tracking beacon. 

On to Part Two of the plan. He needed a speeder bike. 

* * *

The billowing smoke was his ally as Keys flew through it, searching for a place to land. Whoever had designed the air filters in the Phase 2 armor had taken into consideration the fact that the buckets might lose power for whatever reason, and the passive systems were good enough to hold out against smoke and ash even without the active scrubber systems. 

There! A space on the arcade, by a fallen pillar, with no patrols in sight. If he set down there, neatly parked as though he was there officially and not trying to hide, few of his bro - of the troopers would notice it. Tensely, expecting an officer to demand justification for his presence at any moment, he settled the bike into place. It set down like a feather, and he patted the speeder in thanks before vaulting off the seat. 

No shouting yet. Could they have missed him, or did they not care because they assumed him to be under the control of whatever had them all acting so strangely? Either way, he was here, and every second he spent here was a second in which a Jedi might die. 

Pulling his blaster and hating himself for it, Keys headed purposefully for the one place in the temple that he knew well. The crèche. If Master Ynorra had managed to barricade the door, maybe Grogu and Dikto and the others were still . . .

The Jedi Temple was on fire. 

The heat coming from the flames blocking the corridor was almost a solid wall, one that pushed Keys back and made him break into a sweat under his blacks. There was no way to get through without melting his armor, no way to hear any calls for help over the roar and crackle that filled his ears. 

And then he did hear a cry. 

It led him away from the flames, through a door he'd never opened. Between fountains and plants that on any other day he would have gladly observed for hours, across rivulets of water from cracked basins and around collapsed metal walkways that hung down from the artificial ceiling. Fabric hung in curtains, both obscuring his view and hiding him from any searchers. 

The wail went on. 

Speeding up in fear of another trooper hearing the whimpering and coming to dispatch the baby, Keys turned a corner and nearly fell over a long furry arm. 

Master Ynorra's eyes had clouded in death, her limbs splayed unnaturally over the serene stone tiles, her lightsaber still in a grip that could not be broken. Blaster burns stained her fur, dozens of blackened marks testament to how long she had fought for the children under her protection. 

Keys swallowed. Turned. 

The children. 

_Don't think about it. Don't think about it._

Another whine dragged him away from the horror in front of him, and Keys followed it unerringly to . . . a large plant pot? 

A tiny green head poked out from under the leaves, and Keys sobbed aloud as he holstered his blaster and ripped his bucket off. "Grogu," he whispered as he reached for the child, tucking him into his arm. The warm little body felt odd against his forearm, with no armor between his hand and elbow plates. "Grogu, you're alive." 

Grogu reached up to frantically pat his face, and Keys stroked his ears soothingly as the baby Jedi sniffled. 

"Shhh, shhh, not yet, Grogu," he murmured. "It's not safe yet. I need you to keep quiet until I can get you away from here. The other troopers mustn't find you." 

Grogu hiccupped and nodded, then lifted a tiny hand and pointed down one of the paths. 

"Is that the way to safety, or is that where the nearest patrol is?" 

_Warm-safe-clear._

Well, that was understandable enough. Keys jammed his bucket back on one-handed, then faced the path Grogu had indicated. "Come on, then. We need to get to my bike." 

* * * 

It didn't seem to matter to Grogu whether he could see ahead or not - his firm directions never wavered, even with his eyes closed and his face tucked against Keys' chest. Keys half wished that there was a way of blocking his own gaze from the bodies scattered like sabacc cards across the floor, but he needed to see where they were going. He'd just have to cope with it. 

His foot caught on a discarded robe - thankfully, without the former owner still inside it - and he stumbled away. Something hard clacked against his boot as he did so, and Keys looked down instinctively at an achingly familiar set of pure white armor. 

The shiny hadn't even had the chance to earn his paint yet. 

Keys swallowed, lifted his eyes to the next corner, and reminded himself that he had to do this for the baby Jedi curled trustingly in his arms. 

_Don't think about it._

They weren't too far from the bike he'd borrowed now. If he could just get into the air, he could get them both away before anyone wondered what he might be carrying. A few more steps . . .

Grogu's hand flattened on his armor in an unconscious imitation of a halt signal, and Keys stopped just before he outlined himself in the doorway. Patting Grogu's back in thanks, Keys knelt and pulled his bucket off to hear better. 

". . . know who this speeder belongs to?" The snap of the voice suggested some kind of officer, and Keys felt the blood drain from his face. 

"It's registered to the Coruscant Guard. Whoever had it was probably killed by the Jedi." 

"Lock it down and tag it for recovery. If we've missed any Jedi, they won't be escaping on it." 

"Yes, sir." 

Keys swallowed the string of swearwords that sprung to mind. His bike had been Option A, and none of his other half-considered plans were nearly as good. Walking straight out of the front doors was no use - even if by some miracle they didn't notice Grogu in his miniature Jedi robes, Keys would be assimilated into a squad before he could say 'Kamino'. They'd find out fast enough that he'd faked his own death. 

He could hide somewhere in the Temple - but parts of it were ablaze, and he didn't know the complex floor plans well enough to find somewhere that his brothers wouldn't think to search. 

Getting out of a side entrance was no good either, they'd all be guarded by troopers. Maybe there were some that the Jedi had kept secret, but his chances of finding those had about the same likelihood of a lost credit chit in the lower levels still being there when you went back for it.

No, he had to get away, and it had to be by stealth. His armor would stand out too much, even in the dark. There was the option of skinning down to his blacks and leaving his armor behind - but Part Three depended on blending in as just another clone in red and white armor, and that part didn't have any options without that armor. 

His gaze wandered back along the route he'd taken to get here, checking for pursuit or patrols - and his eyes snagged on the empty robe.

This was possibly the stupidest idea he'd ever had, but it was the only one with a chance of working. 

* * *

With the Jedi robe softening his outline and hiding his armor, Keys carefully lowered himself over the edge of the barrier beside the enormous pillars that shielded the wide entrance to the Temple. If his memory was accurate, he wouldn't have much more than a body-length to fall at any given point. 

"Hold on, Grogu,", Keys breathed. 

And dropped. 

His knees absorbed the impact, but not the noise. His only saving grace was that the patrols were at their furthest points right now, and that the sounds made by so many troopers might just swallow the sound. 

Either way, he wasn't going to hang around. Bent over, doing his best to disguise his silhouette, Keys sprinted along beside the wall that separated the walkway from the Temple foundations. There was a niche a little further along where the wall turned inwards ninety degrees and then turned parallel to the stairs again, barely wider than his shoulders but dark and shadowed enough to hide both of them if he could make it that far. 

He spun around as he reached the little nook, plastering himself to the blue-gray stonework and hoping against hope that a brown cloak would be enough to disguise him. Grogu, tucked between Keys and the wall, looked up reproachfully but didn't utter a sound. 

The closest patrol swung near, and Keys held himself frozen as still as the statues that loomed ahead. If those ancient Jedi were somehow watching over their few remaining brethren, maybe they could spare him a bit of luck. 

"Halt!" 

Keys bit his lip under his helmet as the squad at the bottom of the steps obeyed the order. He couldn't see them, and he was too far away from them for them to notice him unless he moved. He had to be. 

"CT-5214, CT-6955, CT-4698. Fall out and report to CC-1119 at the landing platforms, his platoon requires reinforcements." 

"Sir!" chorused the three troopers, and Keys heard them jog smartly away. 

"All remaining troopers, we are required on crowd control duties. CC-6178 will send one of his squads to take over our patrol." 

"Yes, sir!" 

Boots hitting the duracrete in unison, the squad left. Keys gave it a few more breaths after they moved out of earshot, then forced his unwilling body to turn. Looking back over his shoulder confirmed that it was as clear as it was going to be. 

Maybe those ancient Jedi had sent a little luck his way after all. 

Scrambling and sliding down the first big drop, and then the second smaller one, Keys crouched in the shadows and eyed the next run. Once he made it to the end of the stairs, he'd be out in the open and there'd be nowhere to hide. Could he just walk out in his armor after all? Did he have any other choice? 

Looking down at Grogu, Keys steeled himself once more. He could do this. 

Keys covered last short stretch in something more like a sidle than a run, freezing whenever he heard signs of other troopers. One squad, marching down the steps, actually covered the sound of his footsteps as Keys moved in time with them. 

His back to the wall, only partially shielded by the steps in front of him, Keys glanced around the angled base and pulled his head back in quickly. Another half-squad of 501st troopers on the move, likely the ones sent in to replace those that had been called away. They'd see him if he tried to run, they'd find him if he stayed. There were no good options. He'd come so close - !

Grogu tapped his chest again, pointing towards the bottom of the stairs. Keys looked, and for a moment there was nothing. Then, like a gift from the Force, two Coruscant Guard troopers swooped down on speeder bikes, dismounted, and trotted up the stairs. 

It was the work of a moment to shed the Jedi cloak, and Keys kicked it into the shadows. A few moments of risk in the open, and then Keys and Grogu were up and away. 

* * *

The speeder sold for less than Keys had hoped, but the Roonan he traded it to at least threw in a worn leatheris backpack along with the credits. It was enough to buy him and Grogu some food and water, which both he and the kid devoured like starving gundarks before Keys began his trek towards the spaceport. 

Grogu fell fast asleep not long after being fed, nestled into the backpack Keys wore over his shoulders. Keys wished idly that he could sleep too, but there was no time. He had to get to the spaceport and off the planet before it locked down so tight that not even air could pass. One aching foot in front of the other, he kept going. 

* * *

His armor got Keys past the gates and through to the Guard shuttle bay. The vehicles weren't used often, as most of the off-planet missions that the Guard were assigned to were at the behest of people with their own ships. Still, Keys had been given the same basic piloting training with them that every other Guard had, and he was reasonably confident that he could disappear with Grogu without flying through a neutron star. 

Taking a deep breath, Keys pulled all the assumed arrogance of a man with genuine orders into his walk, and marched over to the nearest technician. A nat-born, rare but not unheard of. "Which of these shuttles is ready to fly?" Keys demanded. 

The nat-born jumped, clutching his datapad to himself like a shield. "Any of the ones between bays four to nine - wait, who are you? Why are you here?" 

Keys drew on his memory of Commander Fox. "I have a priority package to deliver to General Skywalker's flagship," he snapped, hoping that the General hadn't had time to send any contradictory orders. 

The mechanic frowned. "Can't it go up with the next scheduled delivery?" 

"I said priority," Keys retorted. "Where's your commanding officer? He should have the clearance to read my orders." 

The nat-born's face twisted into an ugly scowl at the implication that he didn't have a high enough security clearance to demand answers from a clone, but he waved at one of the offices at the far end of the hangar. "Lieutenant Darovny should be _cleared_ enough to tell you where to go," he sneered, then stomped away without being dismissed. 

The lieutenant was exactly the kind of small-minded, politically-promoted officer that populated most of the Senate Guard, and Keys had watched the Coruscant Guard's officers run verbal rings around them too many times to count. It was easy enough to badger Darovny into assigning him a shuttle - probably the oldest and most battered, but that was all to the good as far as Keys was concerned. 

Unfortunately, Darovny decided to escort him to the shuttle, talking all the way.

"There's changes coming, you know," Darovny said self-importantly. "I can't say much, but now that you boys have put down the Jedi rebellion, we'll be able to stretch our influence across the whole galaxy without interference. There'll be improved oversight, and no more of individual planets hoarding resources that should be shared." 

The lieutenant continued, but Keys didn't hear a word of it. All his attention was on the wriggling against his back, the fear and grief hitting him like a blaster bolt as Grogu woke from his doze. 

_Don't cry, please don't cry,_ Keys thought as loud as he could. _Please, please don't move. Just a few more minutes and we'll be away from here, but you have to be still and quiet. Don't make a sound._

The movement stilled, and Keys silently begged anything that might be listening that no-one had spotted the brief motion. 

"Anyway here you go. Have a good flight, trooper!" Darovny gestured at the shuttle, and Keys nodded briefly. All too aware of the precious bundle behind him, he stepped aboard and closed the ramp. 

Pre-flight checks seemed to take twice as long, but Keys didn't dare skimp on them. He filed his flight plan, a simple orbital shot, and waited with his heart in his mouth for traffic control to assign him a departure slot. If he'd been found out, if they told him to stand down . . .

They didn't. Keys lifted off and joined the priority lane, charting a dignified and unexceptional course out of Coruscant's atmosphere. Traffic monitoring wouldn't have given him a second glance back when things had been normal. 

Blue faded to black beyond the viewport, and Keys turned the shuttle in the direction of the Star Destroyer that was his fictional destination. Closer and closer he flew, and just before the ship's communications officer would have hailed him, he diverted his course to miss it. Slapping the hyperspace controls, Keys felt the engines power up as the control panel prompted him for coordinates. 

He fed the computer the first safe set that he could think of, and jumped. 

Stars streaked by the window, and Keys began shaking. It took him two tries to engage the autopilot, his hands trembling as he tried to press the right sequence of buttons, and the computer's neutral confirmation felt like someone had lifted the entire Jedi Temple off his back. 

His back. Grogu. 

Keys ditched his bucket, not caring where it rolled to, and swung the bag around to his front. The buckles yielded to his clumsy fingers, Grogu blinking up at him like salvation as Keys peeled back the top flap. 

"We're safe," Keys said, his voice wobbling as much as his body. "We - we made it, Grogu. We're safe." 

They weren't, of course. Later, Keys would have to rip out the shuttle's tracking beacon, and trade the Republic vessel for another ship, and modify his armor so that it didn't immediately scream 'clone trooper deserter' to anyone who saw it. But that was later, and this was now. 

Grogu reached up for him, and Keys cuddled the baby close as they both wept. 

* * *

Five years later, a scout ship that looked like it was two jumps away from disintegrating settled down on a small moon best known for its no-questions asked policy regarding pilot IDs. 

Some smugglers, the ones who'd seen the ship before and had the wit to look beneath its battered appearance, knew that the vessel was the furthest thing from falling apart. Its engines and weapons systems had been modified, its hull was solid, and its Mandalorian pilot was known to look the other way regarding illegal trading. 

Said Mandalorian pilot emerged from the ship wearing a leatheris backpack that was as scuffed as his ship's paint job, the figure in brown- and gray-painted armor heading over to the Duros who handled refueling. A few words and a pouch of credits were exchanged, and the Mandalorian started towards the lone cantina at the port. 

Three pirates stepped between him and the distant cantina. 

"Hey, Mando. Heard you're carrying something valuable in that backpack . . ."


End file.
